


Holmes' Words and Watson's Caliber

by jamlockk



Series: Watson's Books [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bookstore AU, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, but not really, ish, sofa sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-02 01:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4040431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Watson's Books and Holmes' Heart. John and Sherlock have found each other, and John knows their one night together will never be enough for him. He's falling, hard and fast, for this charismatic, bizarre man he first met in his bookstore. But how can he compete with the Work for a place in Sherlock's heart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The morning after the night before

**Author's Note:**

> Use your words, boys. Misunderstandings, case related silliness and more ejaculation than seems healthy for 30/40-something males. (Disclaimer: I am not a qualified medical professional, just jealous of the number of orgasms these two get to have. Sigh.)

John sighed contentedly to himself as he sat in his chair, thinking of last night; creamy skin and dark curls, hot flesh and sweet release. He shifted a bit, amused at his libido which hadn’t been quite this high in many years. Amazing what one night could ignite, a delightful flame that he would happily allow to catch in his chest and lick at his body. He’d have to be careful not to let it go too far too soon, no knowing what the object of his desire might think or want. Trying to reign in his thoughts to more realistic expectations, John still felt a flicker of hope that his affections might eventually be returned, that the incredible man he had taken to his bed last night might just be willing for more. 

John was still lost in his thoughts when Sherlock came swanning out of the bedroom, gesturing extravagantly and saying something about having left a riding crop in a morgue. He swept around the small living space gathering his things, shrugging into that theatrical coat, all barely contained energy and gleeful eyes. 

John watched him with a smile playing about his lips, unable to stop himself remembering the feel of those hands in his, waking with Sherlock in his arms, the sultry heat of their 4am fumblings. Those long, slow kisses and almost tender caresses seemed completely at odds with the expensively dressed whirlwind darting about the place now.

Sherlock was furiously tapping away at his phone, halfway out of the door, when he paused and hesitantly turned round to face John. His expression was almost shy, looking up at John through his dark lashes. He tilted his head in unspoken question before dropping his gaze to the floor. John couldn’t have refused him anything in that moment, crossing the room in an instant to kiss away the uncertainty. 

They finally parted, both a little breathless, Sherlock looking very pleased with himself and John grinning back at him. With a muttered promise to see each other later, Sherlock left. John stood in the doorway for a moment, still grinning stupidly and unconsciously touching his fingers to his lips, feeling Sherlock’s kiss lingering there. 

John shut the door and headed to the bathroom for a quick shower. He grabbed some clean underwear from the drawer in his bedroom before stepping under the hot spray. The musky scent of sex and Sherlock still clung to the air in the bedroom, and he wasn’t at all surprised to find he was almost painfully hard as he cleaned himself. 

His mind turned to Sherlock again and he palmed himself gently. The moan that escaped his throat was barely audible above the rushing water, and John gave in to the arousal washing through his body. He took hold of his prick and stroked roughly, visions of Sherlock’s hand on his dancing behind his closed eyes. His orgasm built quickly and he cried out Sherlock’s name as he came, his release coating the tiles. He stood under the stream for a little longer letting his body relax. 

After a few minutes he turned off the shower and got out. He towelled dry, brushed his teeth and dressed. He fetched his keys and his phone, locked up the flat and went downstairs to open Watson’s Books, the promise of seeing Sherlock again later adding a hint of a bounce to his steps. 

****** 

“Goddamn it!”

“Um, everything alright Dr Watson?”

John glanced up from where he’d been struggling with the shop’s chip and pin machine (the bloody thing kept losing connection and had been throwing up annoying error messages all day) to see Molly’s sweet face looking at him, a little amused and a little perturbed. 

“Sorry Molly,” he said smiling, “just having a bit of a row with the chip and pin machine. It’s been playing up all day. What can I do for you?”

“Bit of a favour actually,” Molly said. She returned his smile and laid a tattered copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein on the counter. John hadn’t even realised he had such a ratty copy hanging around in the shop, and frowned slightly. 

“Oh no,” Molly exclaimed, “this is my old one and well, as you can see, it’s had better days. It was my grandmother’s, you could tell by the indentations in the back and the annotations on the first few pages. The handwriting’s old-fashioned but still legible.” She flicked through a few pages and opened the book to show John the marks and notes.

“It’s been sat in the sun with a bookmark over the top of it. That’s what that strange shape around the faded part is.” She pointed to the area with her hand. 

“I’ve read this story so many times but I still enjoy it, so I was hoping you’d have a newer version to replace it? Well, not replace it, I’ll keep the old one but…” She trailed off when she saw John smiling. 

“What?” she asked cautiously, drawing the book up to her chest and turning away from him as if she expected ridicule.

“Oh nothing,” John replied warmly, ‘you just reminded me of someone for a moment there. It’s obviously a beloved copy, I agree. I should have another one in the fiction section, let me find it for you.”

He shuffled around the counter past a pile of journals and headed for the shelves to his left. After a quick search he found what he was seeking; Penguin Classics edition, printed 2012. He plucked the book from the shelf and brought it over to Molly at the desk. 

“Here you go,” he told her, “£1.99.”

Molly rummaged in her bag and brought out her purse. She grasped a couple of pound coins and dropped them into John’s open palm.  
John gave her a receipt and she asked him if she could stay, read a while in one of the chairs by the old fireplace. It was truly miserable outside, the snow was coming down again and the wind had picked up, rattling the old windows in their frames. John had a nice fire going in the shop and it had been a quiet day. He smiled again and gestured towards the chairs, telling her she could stay as long as she wished.

Molly settled into her chair and opened her new copy of Frankenstein, and John saw she was soon lost in its pages. He tidied about a bit, then joined her with an old Casino Royale. No other customers came to join them and they simply enjoyed each other’s company for a while, each absorbed in the worlds created in the words they read. 

At length, John looked up and gazed into the fire. His mind turned to Sherlock again, and the instant connection he’d felt. He was desperately hoping to see Sherlock again tonight, even just to listen to him speak. On any subject, John thought he could happily hear that voice in his ears talking about everything from apiary to the Zulus. 

John was startled from his thoughts by Molly’s voice, teasing and playful. “What are you thinking about then? To have such a goofy face on?”

John laughed, “My face is not goofy, Molly! But I was thinking happy thoughts. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“If you say so, Dr Watson,” Molly replied. “Whoever they are, they’re very lucky to be your happy thoughts. I’m so glad to see you smiling,” she added. John was oddly touched by this, he and Molly didn’t know each other terribly well, but she was such a kind soul. It had been a long time since anyone apart from Mrs Hudson had cared enough to notice when he was genuinely happy. 

He rose from his seat and set 007 aside, checking his watch to see that it was almost closing time. John wasn’t trying to hint or anything, at least not too openly, but Molly unfolded her legs from beneath her and stood up to leave. John made his way back to his desk, to find that the chip and pin machine had reset itself and the green connection light was now blinking away merrily. Scowling at it, John crossed to help Molly with her coat as she approached the shop door. 

“Who was it?” she asked, suddenly timid again. 

“Sorry, what?” 

“Who did I remind you of?”

John grinned. “Someone I met recently, an extraordinary someone. Does that kind of thing you were doing, sees stuff in the details of things and can tell you all about it. Things that no-one else would think to look at, think to see. It’s amazing.”

Molly bit her lip and tried not to smile. “Do you know, that sounds like someone I met recently too. He came into the morgue when I was helping Dr Dimmock, took one look at a guy on the slab and announced he’d been murdered. Dr Dimmock was pretty taken aback, asked him how he knew it was murder if we hadn’t even started the post-mortem prep. The man rattled off something about metal shavings in his hair indicating he’d been near an active building site in the hours before he died, and that we’d find an organic, mercury based poison in his blood work.”

She stopped, biting her lip again and looking nervously at John. Wondering how Sherlock had accessed a morgue so easily, John nodded encouragingly at her to continue. 

“Well, of course he turned out to be right. I’d never seen someone put the answers together quite like that before, it was… Impressive.” Molly cast her eyes downwards shyly. “He was impressive.” 

John chuckled, this was an opinion he very much shared. 

“Was his name Sherlock Holmes, by any chance?” John asked.

“Yes, I… How did you know that?” Molly said incredulously. 

“I met him recently too,” John said, unable to keep a touch of innuendo from sneaking into his voice. 

“Oh John, well I’m… I’m pleased for you. It’s great that you’ve found someone.” Molly reached for the door handle and wrapped her scarf around herself before stepping out into the biting wind. John raised a hand goodbye through the window as she walked past, almost sure he’d seen a touch of sadness in her eyes when he told her about Sherlock. She hadn’t been interested in John herself, had she? He dismissed the idea as stupid, flipped the sign on the door to “Closed” and went back to the desk. 

He’d just started pulling out that month’s accounts when the bell above the door jingled. 

“Sorry, I’m closed now,” he called out without looking up. 

“Yes, so I see,” a posh voice drawled. 

John’s head snapped up. The gentleman in front of him was impeccably dressed in a three piece suit and long overcoat, leaning on an umbrella. His sharp eyes gazed into John but this was not the intense curiosity John had seen in Sherlock’s eyes. No, this man was calculating and icy, looking for weaknesses. John had faced men like this high-up in army intelligence, and he immediately drew himself up straighter, as if for inspection. 

“Can I help you, sir?” John asked, trying and failing to keep the sarcasm to a minimum. 

The stranger glanced around John’s shop, taking in the tumbledown homeliness John loved, the seemingly random filing system behind the desk and the old and rare volumes in the cases behind John. His eyes moved slowly, his expression remaining passive but with the edge of a disapproving sneer.  
John felt his hackles rise at the intrusion and the apparent disdain of the man. If he wasn’t going to purchase anything, he could bloody well leave right now. 

The man withdrew a small notebook from his inner suit pocket. 

“RAMC, it says here,” he murmured. “Invalided out, ended up a… bookseller.” 

John prickled further. How the hell did he know that?

“Great. You know something about me. Wonderful. You can leave now,” John said, staring the man down and gesturing towards the door. The man merely smiled. 

“You met a Mr Sherlock Holmes recently. I understand the two of you, to use the popular vernacular, hit it off. In fact, you intend to see him again tonight.”

“Either make a point, a purchase, or get out,” John said levelly, barely trying to keep the hostility to a minimum. The last thing his shop needed was a poor internet review, those things spread like wildfire. The man raised an eyebrow.

“You seem very fond of Sherlock Holmes, having known him for so short a time,” he continued, unworried by John’s increasing anger. “Are we to expect a happy announcement soon?”

“I don’t see how this is any of your business,” John said through clenched teeth. 

“It could be,” the man said softly.

“It really couldn’t,” John replied.

He was almost on the point of physically throwing this nosy bastard out on his arse, but something was stopping him. His hands were perfectly steady and his mind clear and focused. The situation wasn’t dangerous, per se, but it was very unusual. John began to wonder if Sherlock had sent some fancy goon round to provide him some excitement on a dull winter’s day. The thought made him grin, his teeth bared slightly.

The stranger’s eyebrow stayed at his hairline as he caught the hint of steel in John’s eyes, and he carefully closed the notebook and folded it away. 

“If you are to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes, I could ease your way.”

John frowned. “Ease my way how, exactly?”

“By providing a small stipend, in exchange for information. Nothing overt, of course, just checking in every now and then.”

“Why the hell would I agree to that?” John retorted.

“Because you’re not a wealthy man, Dr Watson,” came the reply. John’s hackles rose again. He shook his head firmly. The stranger hummed. 

“Very well. I see from your left hand that you are not as I thought.” He picked up his umbrella and turned to leave. 

Left hand? Not as he thought? What the actual fuck was going on here?!

“Just who the hell are you?” John blurted.

“An interested party. An arch-enemy, if you were to ask Sherlock. He does love drama, always has.” The man sighed. You can imagine the Christmas dinners.”

John was stunned. Was this creepy arsehole trying to tell him that he was Sherlock’s family?

“His brother, yes. Elder, of course,” he said. John couldn’t help it, his mouth dropped open slightly. Seems reading minds wasn’t just limited to Sherlock in this family. 

“Well, I will take my leave. But I will be in touch again, no doubt. I do worry about him, you see Doctor. Constantly.” 

The bell jingled again as the man departed. John blinked a few times, shaking his head and vowing to ask Sherlock about his family and who the ever-loving fuck had paid him an unexpected visit as soon as he could. 

******  
John was just locking up the shop and pulling his cardy closer around his body when he heard the voice. 

“John.” 

He turned towards the steps up to his flat and saw its owner standing there in the same place as he had the previous night. John grinned as he walked up to Sherlock, who tilted his head to the side and smiled back. God, he could lose himself in that smile, John thought. Might not be a bad thing. 

“You are most definitely the best part of what turned out to be a very weird day,” John told him as he turned the keys and let them in. 

“Oh?” Sherlock enquired as they headed up to John’s flat, shucking their coats as they entered. “I assume that’s because you had a quiet day in the shop, spent some time reading by the fire, Fleming most likely, then had to deal with an unpleasant visitor just as you were closing.”

John turned in amazement to Sherlock standing in the small sitting room. 

“Now how the hell did you know that?” 

“Simple, really. You enjoy reading but rarely indulge yourself, you like the Bond films so have probably read several of the source novels. Your cardy smells of smoke but the scent is strongest on your left side, hence you were sitting with the fire to your left as you read. If you managed to squeeze in some time for yourself today you can’t have been terribly busy with customers. And you were hunched over as your exited your shop, but not from the cold. Stress then, you were thinking about an incident which took place just before you closed. Obvious.”

“Amazing,” John said. Sherlock looked surprised at this, then smiled again, his face suddenly seeming almost soft in the light of John’s flat. John caught his eyes for a long moment, feeling drawn in not just by the incredible intelligence there but by the almost completely hidden vulnerability he could only glimpse. It made his heart ache and swell all at once. 

Shaking himself back to reality again, a little embarrassed by his obvious staring at Sherlock, he turned away from those beautiful eyes. 

“Right, what would you prefer for dinner? Don’t think I’ve got anything in so takeaway will have to do. I’ll get the kettle on, you start a fire,” John called as he headed into the kitchen. 

“May I start a fire anywhere?” Sherlock asked, his voice low and right in John’s ear as he wrapped his arms around John’s middle. 

John shivered as Sherlock’s hand snaked southwards. Sinfully soft lips brushed over a spot just below his ear as the hand continued towards his rapidly hardening prick. He could feel the answering bulge in Sherlock’s trousers pressed against him as Sherlock tightened his arms around John, pulling their bodies together. John craned his neck and tilted his head for a kiss, meeting Sherlock’s mouth over his shoulder. 

The kiss was soft and gentle, their mouths just grazing over each other. John shivered again and Sherlock smiled against his mouth, his hand caressing John through his jeans. Suddenly Sherlock squeezed and John’s lips parted in a gasp of pleasure. Sherlock dove in, his tongue licking filthily into John’s mouth. His breathing became ragged and he grasped John’s shoulders firmly, turning him round so they faced each other. 

Sherlock captured John’s mouth again, and John was helpless in the face of the heated assault of Sherlock’s tongue flicking against his, Sherlock sucking it and releasing him only to drive forward and begin once more, capturing John’s bottom lip gently between his teeth

“Do you know how thoroughly distracting you are, John Watson?” Sherlock growled as his fingers deftly removed the barrier of John’s jeans and boxers. The denim and red cotton were lifted delicately over his fully engorged cock, then yanked unceremoniously to puddle around his ankles. 

John gawped in surprise as Sherlock sank to his knees right there on the kitchen floor, Sherlock’s hands smoothing over his upper thighs, not touching where John wanted it most. Sherlock’s eyes were almost completely black, pupils blown wide as he stared admiringly at John’s cock.  
“You are beautiful, John Watson,” he murmured. John had no time, and no brainpower for that matter, to respond, as Sherlock neatly licked the head of his cock then dropped to suck the entire length down in one go. 

John’s shriek of delight was probably audible several miles away. It took all of his considerable willpower not to come instantly when he saw those gorgeous, soft lips wrapped around his length.

Sherlock’s nose was nestled in the thatch of honey-coloured hair at John’s crotch and as he pulled back, tongue rubbing the underside of John’s cock all the way, Sherlock inhaled deeply. The noise that Sherlock made in his throat was glorious, causing a bolt of pure arousal to shoot right through John’s body. 

“Jesus, Sherlock… that…. that’s…. unh!” 

Any eloquence John might’ve had fled from him as Sherlock continued sucking, licking and worshipping his cock. John loved giving head, loved receiving it too, and it’d been a long time since anyone had gone down on him. In all his experience though, he had never had a partner appear to enjoy it as much as he did. Sherlock was moaning appreciatively around his mouthful of John, saliva dripping down his chin onto his expensive shirt. He didn’t seem to care at all, and one hand carried on stroking John’s thigh, tugging gently on his balls and reaching behind him to squeeze John’s arse and keep pulling him deep into Sherlock’s throat. 

John wasn’t going to last much longer and he wound his fingers into Sherlock’s wonderfully soft curls, drawing gently on the strands in warning. Sherlock moaned again, loudly, and John was lost. He threw his head back and cried out, spilling down Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock moans became even louder, his mouth continuing to work around John as he softened until finally letting go when he realised John was getting overly sensitive. 

John dropped to his knees beside Sherlock on the kitchen floor, his hands still carding through Sherlock’s lovely hair. Gradually his breathing evened out again and he used his grip to bring Sherlock’s mouth to his for a kiss. He could taste himself on Sherlock’s lips and damn if that didn’t feel amazingly dirty and hot at the same time. 

“That was… unbelievable,” John breathed. Sherlock smiled, his eyes still closed and he leaned forward to rest his head on John’s shoulder. Suddenly John realised he was being rudely selfish.

“Wait, what about you?” he asked.

Sherlock lifted his head briefly, then dropped it back to John’s shoulder, mumbling something. John twitched his shoulder to make Sherlock sit up and look at him. 

“What was that, love?” John winced as the endearment slipped out accidentally but if Sherlock noticed, he didn’t comment. 

“I… it was too…. Stimulating… and I… I already….” Sherlock mumbled again.  
John sighed, planting a kiss in those smooth curls. 

“You’re fantastic,” he said, wonder clear in his voice. Sherlock’s head snapped up again and he regarded John with no small amount of suspicion. They stayed that way for a moment, John steadfast under Sherlock’s scrutiny. Eventually Sherlock relented, apparently satisfied there was no mocking or insincerity in John’s words. 

“We should get off the kitchen floor though,” John said dryly, “my knees are already complaining.” Sherlock hummed in agreement and they pulled each other to their feet, staggered to the sofa and curled up around one another. 

John’s eyes were just drifting closed when a buzzing noise and vibration in Sherlock’s trouser pocket rudely interrupted them. Sherlock fished out the phone and John could feel the eerily blue glow behind his eyelids. 

Sherlock leapt up, startling John from his post-orgasm haze. 

“Stop dozing John, for God’s sake!” he cried. John blinked blearily up at his lover. Sherlock tugged on his arm, yanking him roughly off the sofa.

“What the hell, Sherlock?” John growled, tucking himself back in. Sherlock was already wrapping his coat around him again, seemingly undisturbed about having come in his pants not five minutes before. 

“Come on, John! Case!”


	2. Case, John!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John joins Sherlock on a case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OHMYGODTHISISLATELIKEUPERLATERTHANITHOUGHTITWOULDBE
> 
> Sorry about that. Hope it's worth it. There might be a smutty epilogue to come but for now I'm marking this complete.

Sherlock could barely keep still in the cab all the way to the crime scene. John watched him, trying not to find the detective’s restless energy endearing. Sherlock was engrossed in something on his phone, mumbling to himself. John sat back further into the soft seat and let his hand rest upturned beside Sherlock’s thigh. He could feel a lovely warmth radiating through Sherlock’s posh trousers, and closed his eyes at a small rush of arousal when he thought about the feel of the pale skin and soft, dark hair beneath. 

 

Sherlock’s voice snapped him from his pleasant reverie. 

 

“Lestrade? Yes. Tell me.”

 

Sherlock frowned, eyes unfocused as he listened to this Lestrade, whoever they were, on the other end of the phone. 

 

“Anderson won’t work with me,” he snapped, “I need an assistant. Never mind, I will manage.” He jabbed the screen, ending the call forcefully before clasping his hands together beneath his face and closing his eyes. 

 

The silence continued until they reached their destination, an expensive street in West London. As soon as the cab drew to a halt Sherlock leapt out and strode towards the waiting officers at the gates of an enormous house. John scrambled to pay the fare and followed, unsure if Sherlock had even noticed his presence in the last half hour. 

 

Sherlock was standing by the gate, talking to an attractive female officer. His posture was a little stiffer, and as John approached he could hear the sneer in Sherlock’s voice. The woman was crossing her arms, nostrils flaring in annoyance as she spoke. John couldn’t make out what had been said but it was obviously not at all friendly. 

 

Sherlock snapped something which made the woman flush an angry shade of red and then he spun on his heels, beckoned to John and dramatically swept through the gates, striding up to the house. John blinked, then hurried after him. The woman looked him up and down as he rushed past.

 

"Don't get used to it, he'll get bored and you'll wonder why you bothered following him in the first place," she hissed, "the freak doesn't have friends."

 

"Just as well," John snarked back, "I'm a jealous freak." He marched towards the stupidly large house without glancing back. Where did people get off on deriding Sherlock this way - sure, he's abrasive and blunt, but at least he's honest, thought John. He caught up with Sherlock in the entryway.

 

"Have fun with Sergeant Donavan, did you?" he asked with an air of faux nonchalance. John frowned.

 

"Not especially. What am I doing here exactly?"

 

"Helping me prove a point," Sherlock replied, moving briskly into the main reception room. "Mr Wilkes, is it? DI Lestrade mentioned me, I presume?"

 

The owner of the house, Mr Wilkes, looks up from where he had been quietly speaking to the silver-haired man sitting beside him on a plush settee with upholstery that looks like it cost more than the contents of John's entire shop. John takes an instant dislike to the man, noticing the way Mr Wilkes's eyes sweep appreciatively over Sherlock's body.

 

"Yes, he did mention you would be... assisting? Of course any help is most valuable. Well, over here is where the piece was displayed. Oh, and call me Sebastian."

 

Wilkes gestured to the empty space on the wall where a painting had been hanging. The hooks had left small holes and the paper around the picture was discoloured from the sun streaming in the large bay windows. Sherlock smiled at Wilkes and turned away to examine the wall. John watched him and shifted his weight. He still wasn't sure what Sherlock wanted him to do and watching Wilkes watch Sherlock was stirring a hot swirl of jealousy in his gut. He hadn't been lying to Sergeant Donavan when he said he was the jealous type. And he knew Sherlock was way out of his league, with his aristocratic manners and public school voice, to say nothing of his incredible physical beauty. Sighing, John hovered out of the way and smiled at the silver-haired man who stood up and crossed the room to stand beside him.

 

"Lestrade," he said as he approached, holding out a hand. His voice was friendly and his brown eyes warm. John took his hand and shook it briskly.

 

"John Watson," he said, eyes still focused on Sherlock, who was now on hands and knees peering at the carpet. John couldn't help but tilt his head as Sherlock's coat slipped over his back, exposing his luscious arse to the eyes of all in the room. John bit his lip but his pleasure was short-lived as he caught Wilkes staring too.

 

"Yeah, I need anything you got right now Sherlock," Lestrade said loudly, breaking Wilkes's focus. He winked at John and turned back around, eyebrows raised.

 

Sherlock sprang to his feet, carpet fibres caught in a pair of tweezers he had produced from God's knows where. He held the tweezers up triumphantly. "The thief is approximately 6ft tall, has size 11 feet, smokes cheap cigarettes and is definitely familiar with this house. Mr Wilkes, did you have your painting restored recently?"

 

Wilkes looked astonished. "Yes, matter of fact I did. Local artist, good friend of mine. He offered to do some minor touch ups. I saw him admiring the painting last time he was here, at my wine and cheese party," he said, smiling at Sherlock like he'd pulled off a magic trick. "How did you.."

 

"Shoe impressions in the carpet, cigarette ash crumbled into the tread, no sign of break-in and nothing else disturbed," Sherlock said breezily. "Incidentally I'd fire your cleaning lady, she's clearly not doing the work for which you pay her. If this carpet hasn't been hoovered in... Five weeks? I'd wager none of your other carpets have either."

 

He handed the tweezers to Lestrade and nodded at John to follow him out. Lestrade opened his mouth to call after Sherlock then turned to John. John merely shrugged and walked after the retreating coat, glad to get away from the house and its ogling owner. He didn't want to examine the feelings in his roiling guts too closely either.

 

He matched Sherlock's stride and they passed by Sergeant Donavan at the gate again. John steadfastly ignored her taunting expression, simply following Sherlock to the main road so they could hail a cab. 

 

"Where to now then?" John asked.

 

"Your neighbour," Sherlock replied, "He's an artist, is he not?"

 

"Well, yes but I don't know him all that well. At all, actually."

 

"Well, now's your chance!" Sherlock chirped, climbing into the waiting taxi and giving the Baker Street address.

 

John had a feeling the feeling in his gut was going to get worse before it got better.

 

****** 

They got back to Baker Street having spent the whole ride there in silence, Sherlock's nose buried in his phone and John worriedly watching the London cityscape pass in the windows, ruminating on what he was feeling for the man next to him. Too soon, too soon was the prevailing thought.

 

As they were exiting the taxi, Sherlock flinging notes haphazardly at the driver, his phone rang. Directing John to seek out the artist who lived above him, Sherlock lifted the phone to his ear and walked off, snapping angrily at whoever was on the other end. John stood stubbornly on the pavement for a few minutes until Sherlock disappeared from view around the corner, then sighed in exasperation and trudged up the steps to the artist's studio.

 

As annoying as Wilkes' fawning over Sherlock had been, Victor Trevor was another matter entirely. The initial introduction in Victor's studio had gone well enough, he had asked John about his bookstore and had been mildly surprised to learn that they had been living so near to one another for so long without ever speaking. John remained unconvinced but smiled anyway. As soon as Sherlock entered though, Victor swiftly forgot all about John. 

 

"Ah, good afternoon, is there something I can help you with?" he simpered, stretching out a hand as he approached Sherlock in the doorway. Sherlock smiled at him warmly and grasped the offered hand with both so his. John's eyes almost bulged out of his head but he quickly reigned himself back in.

 

"Yes, I was hoping to meet you. Sherlock Holmes. I wondered if I might call on your expertise, in fact." Sherlock's tone was friendly but he deliberately pitched his voice deeper, and John found he was savouring the lovely sound of it despite himself.

 

"Oh, by all means," Victor was saying, "John here was just telling me about you." Victor swept his arm dismissively behind him in John's general direction without turning around.

 

John cleared his throat. "Yes, as I was saying, Sherlock is a detective and I'm..."

 

"His assistant," Sherlock interrupted smoothly, not even looking at John. "So, Victor, tell me about your recent works," he continued, allowing Victor to take his elbow and guide him to the row of canvasses stacked against the far wall. "These pieces are simply fascinating."

 

"Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes, you're too kind," Victor purred.

 

"Please, call me Sherlock," Sherlock replied silkily. They ignored John as they both bent down to examine a large painted canvas, conversation continuing in hushed voices across the large room.

 

John stood silently fuming, irrationally jealous about a man he had spent a total of one (glorious) night with, and furious for it. One swallow does not make a summer, Watson, he reminded himself wryly. Struggling to control his expressions and feeling increasingly unnecessary, John clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides. He watched as Sherlock and Victor stood and then stooped again to examine another canvas, this one splattered with uneven splotches of purple paint. It looked to John like the finger painting he'd done in primary school but Sherlock, for some reason, was expressing profound interest in it. John rolled his eyes as Sherlock nodded seriously at whatever Victor was saying.

 

They laughed together, Sherlock throwing back his head to expose the long length of his creamy throat, and John squeezed his hands tightly enough to turn the knuckles white. When Victor's hand rose to rest on Sherlock's shoulder, John had seen enough.

 

Executing a perfect about-face, he stormed out of the studio and down to his flat, slamming the door loudly behind him.

 

****** 

 

Pacing back and forth across the sitting room rug, John tried to force himself to calm down. He had no right, no claim to Sherlock and yet...

 

Maybe he'd been right. Obviously he'd somehow managed to capture Sherlock's interest for one night but he couldn't hope for more. Sherlock was brilliant, sharp and unbelievably gorgeous. John, by contrast, was plain, broken and ordinary. Common, even. He couldn't compete with the likes of Sebastian Wilkes and Victor Trevor. Posh twats.

 

His pacing was interrupted by the sound of the door opening and Sherlock slowly walking into the room. His eyes were bright, his head tilted as he took in John standing in the middle of the room.

 

"You're upset," he said quietly. "Why?"

 

John snorted, rubbing a hand through his hair. He tried to organise his thoughts to answer but before he could, Sherlock carried on.

 

"Wilkes, he was interested in me. So is Victor, they were both overt in displaying their attraction. I saw it but I didn't reciprocate, I merely used their body language and mannerisms to gain information. This upsets you, but I don't understand why," Sherlock said. He was obviously curious, but there was something else there too, a vulnerability John hadn't expected. If Sherlock had stopped there it probably would've been fine.

 

"I think Victor might be our thief, and he is most definitely a talented forger. He showed me a piece very similar to the one Wilkes said was stolen, but I think Wilkes knows it's a fake. I think they're pulling an insurance scam together. I want to break in to Victor's studio when he goes to meet Wilkes tonight."

 

"Right, okay," said John wearily, "don't let me keep you then."

 

"I rather assumed you would be coming with me," Sherlock frowned.

 

"Why?" asked John, "It's not as though you've needed me so far. Besides, I’m sure you can orchestrate a break-in without my help."

 

"Well, yes I know I can, because I stole Victor's keys when he kissed me."

 

John's pulse immediately rocketed skyward. "He... what?!"

 

Sherlock blinked a few times, a little surprised by John's vehemence. "He kissed me, John," he stated.

 

Before he knew what he was doing, John was crowding Sherlock up against the door, fists clenched in the rough wool lapels of his coat.

 

"What the fuck?" John spat. "Why did you kiss him?"

 

Sherlock's eyes widened and his breath quickened. "I didn't kiss him," he breathed, "he kissed me. Just on the cheek, John. What... I don't understand," he finished, lips parted and pupils blown.

 

"That's what happens when you flirt with an attractive man, Sherlock," John growled, "they get ideas about what they can do with you." John leaned in close, his next words puffing lightly across the skin of Sherlock's neck. "And they then try to act on those ideas." He pressed a kiss to the fluttering pulse below Sherlock’s ear, eliciting a delightful gasp.

 

"I... I still... ah! I don't understand..." Sherlock panted as John continued kissing down his neck. "Why did it upset you?"

 

Snarling, John pressed his body flush to Sherlock's, feeling his erection brush Sherlock's thigh. He moved to insert his leg between Sherlock's, pulling him down into his chest by the coat lapels still grasped in his hands.

 

"Because you're mine," John hissed. The soft "oh" that fell from Sherlock's lips was what did it, and John gave in. He pushed one hand into Sherlock's hair and crashed their mouths together in a bruising kiss. Sherlock whimpered against his lips and his knees buckled as John slipped his tongue past Sherlock's teeth and crudely stroked the roof of his mouth. With his other hand, John gripped Sherlock's hip and pulled their bodies even closer, thrilling in the tiny sounds Sherlock was making between kisses. The answering hardness in Sherlock's trousers sent vines of desire curling through John's veins.

 

"You're mine," John growled again, nipping at Sherlock's bottom lip as the hand on his hip moved to stroke him roughly through his trousers. Sherlock's hands grasped at his back, pulling into handfuls of jumper. He was nodding, gasping softly as John's biting kisses trailed along his jawline, down his neck, across his collarbone.

 

"Yours, yes, yes, yours," he whispered, his voice broken in arousal. John's fingers flew to Sherlock's trouser buttons and he yanked them open. "Oh god John, yes!" Sherlock keened as John reached inside his pants and stroked him again.

 

Grunting, John dropped to his knees and took Sherlock's trousers and pants with him. The expensive material pooled at his ankles and John lifted a leg to kneel on it before swallowing Sherlock's cock down in one smooth motion. His nose was buried in the tight curls at Sherlock's groin and John moaned lowly as he inhaled the dark, earthy scent there. The cries of pleasure coming from above him spurred him on and he began sucking and moving up and down, the hand that had previously been in Sherlock's hair reaching to grip his thigh. With the other hand he cradled Sherlock's balls, stroking them gently in time with the movements of his lips and tongue. He felt Sherlock quivering beneath his fingers, and he swooped in again to engulf Sherlock's cock. He swallowed around the head as it tickled the back of his throat and it pushed Sherlock over the edge. He shouted John's name as he came and came, hot spurts filling John's mouth. John swallowed greedily, fumbling with his own trousers to free his straining erection and jerk himself off.

 

Sherlock's hands came to rest on his head and pushed him back, and he released Sherlock's cock from his lips with a sloppy, filthy sound. Sherlock slumped to the floor, legs either side of John. He looked through his lashes hazily and, seeing John free himself, suddenly surged forward.

 

"Let me John, please," he panted, reaching for John's cock. A few quick pulls and John was coming in Sherlock's fist, growling in pleasure. He sat back on his feet for a moment, trying to get his breath back. When his legs began to ache he shifted, pulling his trousers back up around his hips and shuffling his bum until he was leaning back against the door next to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock's eyes were closed and his face and neck were flushed. There were several red marks on his long, pale throat, and more than a few across his collarbone where John had manhandled his posh shirt open enough to get access.

 

John swallowed nervously and thought back over the last few minutes. God, he'd been angry and jealous and he'd just taken from Sherlock, without even asking. Snarling at him, telling Sherlock he was John's. Oh shit. Oh fuck!

 

"Sherlock, I..." John started. "God, I don't know what... I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I didn't hurt you, did I? I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to... Well, I mean, I did mean to... But you know I'd never...."

 

Sherlock's rumbling chuckle prevented John rambling any further. He sighed, a satisfied, happy sound.

 

"John, stop. You didn't hurt me, I wanted it. You had consent, enthusiastic consent, from me," Sherlock said a little breathlessly. "That was... thrilling. I'd be willing to do it again as soon as possible."

 

John huffed a laugh, turning his head to see Sherlock grinning at him. The huff turned into giggles, Sherlock's low chuckles joining in.

 

"Well, I'm glad to hear you enjoyed it," John murmured. "I didn't want to presume, I mean I know once, well twice now I guess, doesn't necessarily mean anything... anything more might follow," he finished quietly. Sherlock looked down at himself, trousers and pants still tangled around his ankles. There was a long pause as Sherlock seemed to consider his next words.

 

"What if..." he trailed off. Pursing his lips, he tried again.

 

"What if I wanted more to follow?"

 

John's mouth dropped open and he stared at Sherlock, who refused to look up. His apparent shyness in this made him somehow more endearing, even though he was sitting on John's floor with his softening cock still dripping onto the hardwood and his legs at an awkward angle. If John hadn't been in major trouble before, he most certainly was now. He was falling in love with this man, hard and fast, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He wasn't even sure he wanted to now. Sherlock bit his lip then continued, still not looking at John.

 

"I'd hoped, wondered if.. If you might visit me. Just when we have a case, of course. I... I didn't want to bring you to my flat. It's on Montague Street and well, quite frankly, it's horrid."

 

John felt the giggles bubble up again and they burst from his lips without permission. Sherlock glanced up and away quickly, trying to disguise the hurt that flashed across his face. John sobered immediately and stopped laughing.

 

"I'd love to visit you as often as you'll have me," he said gently, taking Sherlock's hand in his. "You're always welcome here too, at Baker Street, you know. Mrs Hudson is already so fond of you."

 

The smile that garnered was soft and genuine. John gazed into Sherlock's eyes and let himself fall completely.

 

"Come on, let's get off the floor and onto a comfy seat, huh?"

 

Sherlock nodded, standing and drawing up his trousers and pants. He winced as he remembered what had happened the first time, and his look of disdain made John giggle again. He pulled himself up and went to the bedroom, coming back with clean boxers. Sherlock took them gratefully and dropped his trousers to change right there and then. That set John off again, fond giggles pouring from him as Sherlock toed off his shoes, stepped out of his soiled underwear and pulled on the borrowed ones. They were bright red and fit rather snugly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John as he redressed, making John giggle even harder. God, it was ridiculous but Sherlock's arse didn't half look enticing clad in tight red cotton.

 

They collapsed into a heap on the sofa, limbs tangled together, Sherlock's head in John's lap, John's fingers carding through the soft curls. They stayed there a while, enjoying the comfort and closeness. John wouldn't have guessed Sherlock to be much of a cuddler but he was thrilled to find he was. Eventually Sherlock broke the peace.

 

"He'll have the forgeries stored in there, probably hidden among the easels and supplies," Sherlock murmured. Back to the case then.

 

"If I can find the fakes, and his cigarettes, we can place him at Wilkes' house. He already admitted he knows Wilkes, if I can get his phone as well I can find the emails they've been sending on another. Really, if you're going to commit fraud and be stupid enough to plan it by email, you deserve to be caught."

 

John hummed in agreement. He wouldn't mind seeing both of those toffs cuffed and bundled into police cars. But first he wanted just a little more time to bask in Sherlock's presence, here in his arms. He could feel himself beginning to doze. He tried to fight it, but the soothing cadence and timbre of Sherlock's voice as he continued to speak lulled him. His eyes slid shut and he quickly dropped off to sleep.

 

****** 

 

John woke an hour or so later. The flat was dark and cold, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. Sighing, John got up and went to retrieve his phone from wherever it had ended up. He sleepily licked his lips and grinned to find the lingering taste of Sherlock still there.

 

A noise from the floor above brought him to full alertness. Of course! Sherlock was breaking into Victor's studio. Idiot, John thought, just couldn't either wait for me or wake me up to go with him. Hastily sorting his rumpled clothes, John dashed out of his flat and up to the studio.

 

The studio was dark but he could hear grunts and scuffling. John crept in and peered through the room, frantically searching for Sherlock. He finally made out the two figures grappling in the corner, near the canvasses Victor had been so keen to show Sherlock earlier.

 

One of the men suddenly lifted a canvas and brought it crashing down onto the head of the other. John was already rushing across the room when Sherlock cried out as Victor then grabbed a heavy frame and brained him with it. Sherlock crumpled to the floor in an ungainly heap.

 

John advanced furiously just as Victor turned around, aiming the heavy frame for John's head. John dodged it easily, swinging a powerful left hook to Victor's handsome face. Pain bloomed in his knuckles as his fist connected with Victor's jaw but the snap of Victor's head more than made up for it. Victor yelped and staggered backwards, and John tackled him to the ground.

 

"What the fuck!" Victor exclaimed as John subdued him.

 

"Shut up," John barked, wrenching Victor's wrist a little further up his back, relishing the hiss of pain. "Sherlock, you okay?"

 

There was a low grumble and the shape that was Sherlock moved to sit up.

 

"Be over there to check you out in just a tick," John said, pinning the squirming Victor with his knee.

 

"M'fine," Sherlock mumbled. He winced as blue lights suddenly washed into the dark studio. There was a pounding on the main door to the building and several pairs of feet in heavy boots came clattering up the stairs. Lestrade's face appeared as he flicked the main light on. Sherlock groaned and tried to cover his eyes with his arm.

 

Lestrade looked amused more than pissed off as he took in the scene. Sherlock gave up trying to cover his eyes as his glared blearily at the DI. The broken frame around his neck prevented him lifting his arms to his face so he dropped them to his sides.

 

"Stop gawking and make yourself useful, Graham," Sherlock snapped as sharply as he could. Lestrade just laughed, and gestured to where John was sitting on Victor.

 

“I assume that's my art thief you're squashing there, Mr Watson," he said cheerfully. "Wanna get off him now, let my fellas take him?"

 

"Gladly," John replied, easing off Victor and standing up as two uniformed officers cuffed Victor's hands and got him on his feet.

 

"I will be making a formal complaint!" Victor yelled. "That man broke into my studio, I was just defending myself! Then his pyscho mutt here tackled me and assaulted me! And I'm not the thief!" he added, spitting in anger.

 

"Oh yeah?" Lestrade asked as he walked over to the corner where Sherlock was sitting. "So what’s these then?" He pointed to the multiple copies of Sebastian Wilkes' stolen painting.

 

Victor flushed and tried to gesture to Sherlock. "He planted them! That freak put them there to frame me!"

 

John glared up from his crouch at Sherlock's side at the "freak" insult. He'd had quite enough of that being thrown at Sherlock for one day. Lestrade cut him off before he could get to his feet however.

 

"Right sure, of course he did," he said, "Just get him downstairs, and get Anderson up here to gather the evidence. I'll get statements from you pair tomorrow."

 

John nodded distractedly and went back to trying to examine Sherlock's head. Victor carried on shouting as he was led away, Lestrade's officers being a little more firm than they normally would. John was grimly satisfied when he heard the car door slam shut outside.

 

He helped Sherlock discard the frame from around his neck and cradled Sherlock's face in his hands.

 

"Sure you're alright?" he asked.

 

"I'll be fine, John, thank you," Sherlock answered softly.

 

"Good, cos you're a bloody idiot."

 

Sherlock snorted. John was unmoved.

 

"What were you thinking, coming up here by yourself? He could've been armed, could've had a knife or something! Next time, wake me up for fuck's sake!"

 

"I admit I underestimated the potential for craft supply-based head injuries John, but it was all fine in the end. I knew I could count on you to follow me. Eventually."

 

"Sherlock, that's not the point. You're supposed to be a genius, wait for me instead of going dashing off on your own! Or better yet, the police!"

 

"I called the police," Sherlock muttered sullenly, waving a hand at Lestrade. "They're here now, aren't they?"

 

John sighed fondly, dragging Sherlock to his feet. "Yes, they are. And you're still a bloody idiot." Sherlock smiled, still holding John's hand. John was about to lean in to kiss him when Lestrade cleared his throat.

 

"So," he said, grinning widely and looking genuinely delighted. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Statements tomorrow then? And I don't want to hear anything about breaking and entering, alright?"

 

"Of course not, Inspector," Sherlock huffed, "we were merely investigating a suspicious noise." John stifled his giggles and coughed to cover it. "I don't believe you've met John Watson," Sherlock gestured to John beside him, "he's my..."

 

"Boyfriend," John stated, cutting Sherlock off. "And yes, we have met."

 

Sherlock's eyes were saucers and he was stunned into silence. He gaped at John, who squeezed his fingers gently in reassurance. Lestrade beamed at them.

 

"If that's all, Inspector Lestrade, we'll be in my flat downstairs. 221B," John said firmly, tugging on Sherlock's hand so he'd follow.

 

"Please," Lestrade laughed, "I'll see you tomorrow, 9am sharp at New Scotland Yard."

 

John nodded once and dragged his boyfriend back to the relative safety of his flat.

 

John deposited a still shocked Sherlock onto the sofa and headed for the kitchen to make tea. Mrs Hudson's voice came through the door.

 

"Coo-ee," she crooned as she came in, closing the door on the chaos upstairs behind her. "I thought you boys might like some tea and biscuits?"

 

"Perfect, thanks Mrs Hudson," John smiled warmly. Mrs Hudson looked at Sherlock, staring at his hands, and tittered. "Just this once dear," she admonished. John grinned as she ushered him out of the kitchen and onto the sofa beside Sherlock.

 

John took Sherlock's hand again. "Alright?"

 

Sherlock took a deep breath and finally looked up at John. "Yes John," he said quietly, entwining their fingers. John wondered if his face would get sore from smiling so much.

 

Mrs Hudson bustled in with a tea tray and biscuits, setting them down on the coffee table. She clasped her hands together as she looked at them and squeaked happily. John grinned in response and Sherlock looked up, a shy smile lighting up his face.

 

"Oh, this is lovely!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed. "I never did like that Mr Trevor, you can tell these things sometimes, can't you? Something not quite right about him. Not like you two though, this just... oh it's just lovely!"

 

"Yes, thank you, Mrs Hudson," John laughed.

 

"Only, what'll I do with Victor's studio now? It looks like it'll be empty for a good while and I really could use the income. Oh, I'll have to rent it out to another fussy artist! And the time it'll take to find someone!"

 

John cleared his throat. "There is another option," he ventured. Mrs Hudson looked at him expectantly. He squeezed Sherlock's hand again before speaking.

 

"Sherlock could use the space for his work, his experiments. I'm sure it would be a serviceable lab."

 

"That's a lovely idea!" Mrs Hudson pronounced, "What do you think, Sherlock?"

 

But Sherlock was shaking his head. John felt cold disappointment settle in his bones and he only just stopped himself from squeezing Sherlock's hand again.

 

"I work at all hours, and I can't be on the other side of London part of the time, going back and forth between here and my flat all the time," he was saying sadly.

 

John smiled. "Then you'll just have to move out of that horrid flat and move in here," he said. Mrs Hudson clapped her hands once in approval.

 

"There, sorted!" she cried. "Perfect!"

 

Sherlock was staring at John, open-mouthed. Mrs Hudson winked at John and stood up. "Well, if that's all settled, I'll leave you two in peace." She shut the door quietly and John could hear her chatting to the departing police officers pleasantly as she went back to her flat.

 

"John, I..." Sherlock faltered. "I play the violin when I'm thinking, and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. I am a very difficult man to live with."

 

"It's fine," John said with a nod. "It's all fine."

 

Sherlock smiled cautiously and started to lean forward for a kiss, before nervously stopping himself. John vowed to chase away that uncertainty as fast as possible and with as many kisses as possible. He leaned in and made a start immediately.


End file.
